The Head and The Heart
by simplemelodies
Summary: It's been a while since John Watson's best friend fell from the rooftop of St. Bart's. Life has treated him well—he's got the job back and the surgery…and he's even met a new woman. Everything goes great until he finds a few letters from one Sherlock Holmes. Will John's life be the same or will he have to witness a cruel battle between his head and his heart?
1. After My Blood Turns Into Alcohol

_You are the hole in my head  
You are the space in my bed  
You are the silence in between _

_What I thought and what I said_

John Watson stared out the window from his position in the front room, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair and supporting his head. The ache that had been developing behind his eyes was aggravating him more and more. Rain poured against the window and cast a somber mood into the flat.

There was only so much John could do right now. Thoughts had invaded his head out of nowhere, and it was all he could do not to break down once again. It wasn't necessarily the grief that overtook him this time, but the memories. So John was sat in his old comfortable chair, the one he'd become so familiar with in the past three years; visions of memories danced behind his eyelids.

He had learned a long time ago that the bad memories were the worst to hold on to, so John had taken on Sherlock's old method of "deleting" them. Of course, they were never really deleted at all—just stored away so he could look at them when he was ready. However, the moment never came. How could he ever be ready to go through that? The man was his best friend. He had given him life back. Reminded him what it meant to be happy. So in the end he was forced to go through them with all the pain they produced or shut them out completely.

Sometimes forgetting was the worst part—forgetting the little details of the man who had completely consumed his life at one point. So there were times like today when John would be almost crippled by the weight of the thoughts in his brain—some bad, some good. There were just so many.

John jumped at the sound of his phone ringing in the kitchen. Groaning, he lifted himself from the chair and tried to force back the sharp pain behind his eyes.

"Yeah," he answered, failing to look at the caller ID.

Mrs. Hudson's voice crackled through the earpiece. "The taxi is here, dear. Be down soon—I don't think he wants to wait."

John mumbled a quick, "Be right there," and hung up. He grabbed his jacket and swung it over his shoulders as he made his way down the steps. "Mrs. Hudson?" he called out.

"In here, John." She appeared from the doorway behind the stairs. "Are you ready?" The inquiry was laden with more than just one question—she was searching for much more than a singular answer.

The former soldier straightened and nodded, bending down only to give his landlady a quick hug. "Better than I could be, I would guess." He shot a sad smile to the woman and extended his elbow for her to grasp. "Now, let's get going. The cab is waiting."

As they slip out the front door, John fails to notice both the small look of relief and the sigh that escape from Mrs. Hudson.

X

The rain was a mere drizzle when Mrs. Hudson and John exited the cab at the cemetery. John pulled out his umbrella and held it over his landlady's head. "Are you sure you're—."

"Mrs. Hudson." The doctor fixed Mrs. Hudson with a stern look that said _not now_. A few seconds went by before his expression softened and he nodded at the rows of headstones. "We should go. The rain isn't going to let up anytime soon."

As if to punctuate the words, the wind picked up and he had to struggle to keep the umbrella upright. "How's the surgery, John?"

A few weeks following the death of his best friend, Sarah had contacted John, a follow-up of an application he had sent in a few days prior. She had given her condolences—why did everyone seem to give them to John? Why not Mycroft or Sherlock's mother?—and had simply given him the job, no questions asked. Since then, John had been doing great with his work and had even gotten a raise. It seemed that without Sherlock around, John was able to focus on things he wouldn't normally be able to. The flat was cleaner, there was food in the refrigerator, and there were even nights when John got sleep.

"Great, actually." They were approaching a black headstone now, and both knew it was time for quiet. For a few minutes each silently paid their respects.

Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat and laid a hand on John's shoulder. I'll be on the bench, dear." It wasn't said, but the woman knew he needed his little bit of privacy to say what he needed.

"There were times when I thought you were alive, when I thought maybe you could have faked your death. There are moments when I wanted to find you and kill you for putting me through that. Now I just can't think about it anymore. I don't think about it. You're dead, and I know that now. It's been far too long to believe anymore. I will see you then, Sherlock. I'll see you again.

"You were such a beautiful human being, even if you were a git sometimes. You were bloody brilliant. Of course, that may just have been you acting. I can't believe you'd do those things. I didn't know you, though, so how could I know why you did it? You are a fake, plain and simple. You really killed me, you know. For a while I was sort of broken—I wanted to believe you so bad. I wanted to believe in you. Ha. I was just believing in a fairytale. God, when I saw you jump…eh…I thought that was the end. But I had hope, you know? You took that away. But I shouldn't have had hope anyway, should I? Oh, God, I was so naïve. I wanted you to be real. I wanted you to save me, didn't I? You were so larger-than-life, so full of a certain danger and unpredictable-ness that I thought I needed. Hell, maybe I did need it.

"And yet for the longest time I defended you. I would tell everyone that you were real, that you were not lying—and every time I would get labeled as crazy. Maybe it's time to stop, Sherlock. Maybe it's time to move on. A year is too long to wait."

"John, we're leaving."

"Right, well. This will be the last time, then? The last time I talk to you. Oh, what a relief. Well. Ah, ehem. I will try to forget you, like you said."

John touched his hand to the top of the tombstone for only a second before doing an about-face and walking towards Mrs. Hudson and the cab.

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	2. Take This Heavy Load

**A/N: **This is now a finished work, and chapters will be uploaded every other day. Thank you and I hope you enjoy!

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_Never let your fear decide your fate_

Six Months Later

She had shoulder-length brown hair and piercing brown eyes. There was not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her outfit, which complimented her curves perfectly. The smile that lit her features could kill a man, and John was practically dead in his office chair.

"Doctor Watson?" Her voice was quiet, but not at all meek, and her lips quirked a little when John stood to shake her hand.

"Yes. You must be Mary Morstan." At her nod, he gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Please, sit."

It was just a routine check-up. She'd been feeling incredibly ill in the previous few days and wanted to see if it was anything serious. "Just a minor cold," John said once they were finished. "Nothing some juice and ibuprofen won't fix."

Mary smiled across the desk at the doctor and stayed seated, confusing John a bit. "There's a small Italian restaurant down on Northumberland." John's knee ached a little at the memory.

"Angelo's, yes, I know the place." He pasted a smile on his face, more than a lot uncomfortable at the mention of the restaurant.

Her smile was almost splitting her face in two when she replied, "Good, good. I was wondering if maybe you'd like to have dinner, then? Friday night, maybe?"

John didn't want to say no, but he'd rather not go to Angelo's. _Look at this woman, John! She's great. Beautiful, too._ He rubbed his thumb over the ache in his leg. _It's just a date. Won't hurt a thing. So what if it's Angelo's?_ "Yeah, that'd be great." His smile turned genuine at the thought of dinner with Mary. "We'll meet at seven—sound good?"

The rest of the week passed by in a blur, as John was just too nervous. Oh, he'd been on countless first dates, but this was new. This was at Angelo's. It wasn't like Angelo's was some sacred place—it just happened to be where John and Sherlock's friendship had really taken off. So, in a way, it was special. However, that didn't mean that John couldn't have a date there every so often…and she _was_ quite pretty. And it would be nice for Sherlock to not be popping up in the middle for once.

This pep talk was what kept John going throughout the week and, eventually, what had him standing outside the restaurant in his new blue button-up. The sign outside the shop said the house special of the night was chicken alfredo. John was deciding if he was for or against it when a hand tapped him on the shoulder from behind.

Turning, his eyes landed on the body attached to the arm. Mary was grinning at him in a friendly manner. "To be honest," she began without an introduction, "I was beginning to wonder if you were going to show up. You didn't seem like you were terribly interested on Tuesday."

John felt his cheeks flush. "Ah, no, I was really interested. It's just—well, I've got some memories…it's best not to discuss, though." Her furrowed brow didn't escape John's notice, so he clarified. "There was a man I knew once. A good friend—in fact, our friendship began at this restaurant."

There was a nod from Mary and he laid his hand on her arm, leading her through the front doors. "It's quite warm out there," she stated as they were shown to a table near the back. It was a cozy little restaurant with local cuisine as well as authentic Italian dishes.

"Ah, John!" A man's voice boomed from behind them. They were barely seated before a hand came down on John's shoulder and the owner himself appeared. "Lovely to see you. It's been, what, a year? More?" The older, burlier man cast his gaze over Mary, who was wearing a lovely black top and jeans. _Oh, good,_ John thought, _it wasn't too formal, then._

The young woman beamed at Angelo as she held out her hand. "Pleased to meet you. My name is Mary." There was a grin on the man's face as he took her and in both of his and shook lightly.

"Angelo. Please, whatever you want, I'll make it myself." He glanced down at John and gave him a look that seemed to say "we'll talk later".

With Angelo gone, John and Mary fell into a steady conversation about John's work at the surgery and Mary's work in grade school. "I love the children, but sometimes they can be little tyrants."

John was loving the night so far, and when Mary began to ask him about his friends it felt natural to bring up the detective. "Yeah, I used to have a flatmate—Sherlock." Mary giggled at the name. "Oh, you think it's silly, but trust me, the name fit the man. He was…quite something." He couldn't stop the wonder in his voice and the bit of stinging behind his eyes.

"So what happened? I mean—why isn't he flat-sharing with you anymore?"

The doctor tensed and had to remind himself that he was fine, that he was a soldier. That didn't mean it didn't still hurt sometimes. "He…passed away. Suicide."

Mary's brow creased in concern and she laid a hand on John's arm that rested on the table. "I'm sorry. I mean," she began when John tried to speak, "I'm sorry you had to go through something like that." Even then, Mary could tell there was something about this flatmate that wasn't normal. "What did he do for a living?" _Something simple_, she told herself.

"Sherlock? Oh, he was a detective. Wait, no," he corrected, "he was a consulting detective. Only one in the world." John smiled to himself and then looked at Mary, who was smiling back at him. "What?"

"Oh, nothing—it's just, you were close, weren't you?"

John took a deep breath and a bite of his pasta before continuing. "He was my best friend, I suppose. I mean, it's hard not to be when you share everything with each other." Mary quirked an eyebrow. "Oh, come off it. Not like that."

John was actually laughing, and beaming at the beautiful woman across from him. He was having a great time—this had to be one of the best dates he'd had in a long, long while.

When all was said and done and the plates had been taken away and the bill had been paid, Mary stood and held her hand out to John. "Oh, none of that," he said with a smile and pushed her hand away only to hug her. "You deserve much more than a handshake after a date like that."

Mary shot him a smile when they parted; John wasn't one to let a beautiful smile go unnoticed and grinned back. "I hope we can do this again," she admitted when they were on the pavement outside the restaurant. "I really did like it. This place is great for first dates."

"Yeah. I'd love to try this one more time. Or two. Or ten." The doctor smirked and took her hand. "Mary Morstan, would you accompany me to a movie on the night of…er…next Friday at eight o'clock?"

A giggle erupted from the woman and she replied, "I would be delighted."

Later that night, John lay in bed remembering the entire date, going over the details. _Yeah,_ he said to himself, _I definitely like her._

Something about Mary was definitely different—alive. John had had way too much of the same thing, and Mary was great. She was pure, and funny, and sarcastic, and happy. Happy was really something John needed, something he wanted. And her smile—it was beautiful, as was the rest of her. There was something about her, something he approved of and admired. _And,_ he mused, _maybe one day it'll end up being more than just a casual date. _

John slept well that night, drifting off with a smile on his face. When he awoke the next morning, it was still in place.


	3. Before I Grow Too Old

**A/N: **The rest of this work will be in short increments of about 300 words each. Sorry for the short chapters. Hope you enjoy!

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It was a year after they met that John decided to marry her. Welcoming Mary into his life had been easier than he had expected. Her presence became regular at 221B, and the decision to live together there was an easy one. She had seamlessly inserted herself into his life, and that was okay—even for Mrs. Hudson, who had taken a liking to her. The elder landlady had accepted Mary just as she'd accepted John years before, even asking if they'd be needing two bedrooms (followed by a wink, mind you). Having her there made it easier for John to admit that, after Sherlock's death, he wasn't alright. And it was alright that he wasn't alright, because now he had Mary.

He was happier with her, he knew. John was a better man, a bit more grown and weathered—so much better than he could have been had he said no to their first date. She loved him, and he loved her.

John wouldn't ever get past the late night talks, or the movie nights, or the lazy Sundays with picnics when the weather permitted. John loved the closeness and the fluidity of their relationship, for it had a depth not many had. It was easy, it was nice, and it was what he'd expected years before when he was just a young man. Mary was John's best friend—if you took Sherlock out of the equation, of course.

Yes, he still thought of his friend. It had been a two and a half years and he still remembered Sherlock. The detective had definitely left an imprint on John's being. The memories kept him up sometimes. Sometimes he wondered if he were really dead. When he'd have those thoughts, though, he'd go to Mary. He'd talk to her—about work, Mrs. Hudson, Mary's job, and sometimes even Sherlock. Mary knew John had a close bond with Sherlock—it had become apparent the night of their first date—so she didn't mind his talking about him on occasion.

So John had decided, two years, six months, and seventeen days after his best friend passed—don't ask how he knew, it's best not to know—that he would ask Mary to, well, marry him. The only problem was getting her to say yes.

They had their dinner at a quaint little shop a few blocks over. It wasn't a lot, just a nice steak and salad—nothing too fancy, John would guess. Mary looked especially pretty that night, and he would remember it for a long time. She wore a baby blue dress that came right to her knee and her hair up in a bun. There was an air of calm about her that John always seemed to love. "You look beautiful," he said that night as they sat down. Of course, he said that a lot, but this time it felt as if he really needed to. Mary smiled and blushed, picked up the menu and began reading.

Over dinner they talked about work, and lapsed into a comfortable silence. Street noises poured in when the front door of the restaurant would open, but it was soothing rather than unsettling—it was familiar—it was London. John would catch himself staring at Mary sometimes, which wasn't bad—they were dating, after all. She was just amazing, and he knew it, and he loved her for it.

After the steak had been taken and the bill had been paid, John and Mary made the decision to walk back to the flat given the nice evening. He kept sneaking glances at her face and smiling to himself, knowing what was to come. "We should open that bottle of wine," he suggested, and Mary smiled at him.

"Yeah. That'd be nice." The rest of the walk went by slowly, but it was nice. When the entered the flat, John went to the kitchen while Mary sat down on the couch and began rifling through their movie collection.

Her voice called from the living room, "How does _Star Wars_ sound?"

John grinned and pulled the red wine from under the cabinet, his nerves making his hands shake. Mary was always one for the action movies. "Which one?"

"The first one, of course." John sank into the cushions beside Mary and set the glasses on the coffee table. Leaning over, he planted a kiss on her cheek and watched as she wrinkled her nose. "Whiskers," she explained.

"Oh, come on, I shaved this morning!" The doctor chuckled at the old inside joke.

About an hour later and four glasses of wine between the two, Mary laid her head on her partner's shoulder and sighed. "I love you," she said.

"Where'd that come from?" Though they'd voice their affections before, it was rare for either of them to vocally announce their love. John squeezed Mary's hand.

Again, she sighed. "I just thought I'd tell you," she said around a yawn.

John chuckled. "I love you, too." For a moment John was sat musing over if this was the right decision. But then Mary sniffled and scooted closer to John's side and he couldn't stop himself. "Mary."

"Mm, Yeah?"

"Marry me." The words rolled off his tongue like honey but the tension in the room turned it sour. Mary took a moment to answer and when she finally did, it was almost too quiet to hear.

"Okay."

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	4. My Hope, Torn Apart

**A/N: Whoa, it's been like five years. I've finally gotten up the courage to keep posting this. However, the full work is on Ao3 under the same title, if you would like to continue reading there. Please, please, enjoy. That's what it's here for.**

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_The secrets you give_

_And the secrets you keep_

They'd been planning the wedding for three months. It was to be in late May with just a few family members present. Harry had helped plan a bit—not that there was much planning needed; the entire affair was planned to be small and understated. That was how Mary and John both wanted it.

However, small as it may be, there were a few things that Mary just couldn't do without. John was told that there would be some kind of display of pictures featuring the two before they met all the way up to the wedding day. This information found John in the storage closet under the stairs one Sunday afternoon, searching his old trunk for pictures.

So far, he'd found two Polaroids from the army, an old black-and-white baby picture (of him in the bathtub—typical), and his old graduation photo. He was rifling through the top shelf when he found it—a stack of three envelopes held together with a rubber band.

It wasn't like he'd meant to find them—they were just there, perfectly sealed and held together. They were dated for years ago, several months before Sherlock's death, definitely. They were all addressed the same way—John's name printed simply on the front in Sherlock's pointed script—and they were all clearly written by his former flatmate.

Opening the envelope marked with the earliest date, he read:

_John,_

_I've never been the best at letters. I've never been the best at communication as a whole, but you already know that. You know a lot, actually, which is why I put up with you, I suppose. _

_But why do you put up with me, John Watson? What makes me so special to share a flat with? First, there's the attitude—the world would definitely be a better place without my constant holier-than-thou persona. Those don't happen to be my words—they're Donovan's, in fact. _

_Then we have the experiments. I know if you could read this, you'd be rolling your eyes. Of course, I know you enjoy a little madness, but the experiments seem to be taking it a little far as I've noticed. _

_And finally we have my silence, my moods, my "overbearing demeanor". _

_You think I don't notice these faults of mine—I didn't at first, I didn't believe that I had any thoughts to begin with before you. I suppose flat-sharing with someone I respected in a sense has changed that._

_There have been times where I want to hit you for pushing me to care—because I don't care, John. I never have cared, not before this. But you—oh, you have forced me to put so much more effort into feeling than I originally thought possible._

_Sherlock_

John blinked at the page, then blinked again, and again. The breath was lodged in his throat. Two more letters. He couldn't read anymore, John decided. Not now. He needed pictures. For his wedding.

Right. He was getting married. To Mary. John shook himself and made a quick run upstairs to stow the letters in his room. Maybe he could just read them later. Making a mental note to open them before bed, he started searching for pictures of his childhood.

But why did Sherlock write a letter to John? Was John supposed to even read them? And what had made Sherlock so aware of his feelings that he decided to write? Sherlock was known for not showing any emotion. Emotion leads to losing, and Sherlock _never_ lost.

Now John's mind wasn't into the pictures. He threw a few of his secondary school pictures and reunion candids into a plastic bag distractedly before leaving the flat and hailing a cab.

The constant question in the back of his mind was "why?" Why had Sherlock written to him so long ago? It was something Sherlock was known for—not showing emotion, not _having feelings_ at all. So…why? What was so different now? Unless, of course, Sherlock was normal, and he needed to get his _feelings_ out. This would be it, wouldn't it? Sherlock had just been letting off steam—clearing his mind. Yes, John told himself, that had to be it.

And yet, the question was still nagging at his brain the whole ride to Angelo's, barely glancing at the cabbie as he paid his fair. John was so out of it, even, that his betrothed questioned him of it while waiting for dinner.

"Nothing," he explained, pulling himself to the present and taking a sip of his wine.


	5. In the Dark We Belong

It wasn't until two weeks later that John decided to pull out the letters again and read them. "Just one," he muttered to himself as he pulled them out of his bedside drawer. Mary hadn't said anything to him about them, so that meant she hadn't found them yet—not that it would be a bad thing. They were just a few letters, correct?

But, still, John found himself hiding them, keeping them from his wife-to-be.

So he was sat in bed, the stack of envelopes held gingerly in his hands. Maybe it was due to the fact that this was the last thing he had of Sherlock. His best friend had left him with most of his possessions, but something about these letters felt…_more_. Opening the second letter was hard, however. John felt as if he were invading his best friend's privacy. Then again…

_John,_

_I asked you once why you cared so much what people thought of me—of us. I constantly wondered why you would take the time to defend this sociopath—and that's just what I am, isn't it? A sociopath. As far as I can see, you were just a flatmate. So I want to ask you one more time, even though I won't get an answer. Why? why back me up every time I'm insulted? I don't need it; I am perfectly fine on my own. Before you, I was getting along great. Donovan and Anderson couldn't touch me with their harsh words. I was fine._

_After you, however, I couldn't bear it. When they would say harsh words—terrible things—in your absence, I would grow angry and distant and it would take me twice as long to solve the case. I needed my blogger to back me up. But why would you defend me? Why stand beside me when I did nothing but string you along?_

_This is killing me. I normally know why things happen, and oftentimes before the person themself knows. But I can't deduce why. That's the question of the century, right? Why._

_I care what people say about you. I always will. You are my blogger, my flatmate, my doctor, my soldier, and most importantly, you are my friend. I care for you as much as you care for me and (though I know it will not accomplish anything) I pray that when this is all over, you will see that this is for the best._

_Sherlock_

John's breath was gone. He lay in is bed stunned. This was just before—. No, he wouldn't think of it. Not now. The doctor gritted his teeth and let out a hiss. There wasn't much to think about that.

But why _did_ John care so much? It wasn't as if Sherlock were there to see him curl up on the bed, clutching the paper tight to his chest. It wasn't like the detective would ever see exactly the effect his words had on the doctor. Sherlock was dead—gone. John knew that, but somehow it just made everything worse. Sherlock knew what would happen, much earlier than he let on. It killed John; it really did, to know that Sherlock didn't ask for any help from his best mate. Of course Sherlock was one who never asked for help; he'd sooner snog the queen!

Shaking his head, John got up from the bed and decided to take a walk—this wasn't helping at all, being cooped up in a flat that reminded the doctor of the man he wished to forget for the moment.

However, John's attention was steered to the letter once again before bed that night. The words "Why stand beside me when I did nothing but string you along" echoed through his head all through the evening, distracting him to the point of annoyance. Of course John would stand beside his best friend! That Sherlock would even think such a thing was an insult to the doctor's loyalty.

Then again, there were the many times John would quietly mutter and complain about the detective's tactics and his constant need for attention. It was as if Sherlock Holmes could never truly be quiet, calm, and _normal_.

On another note, Sherlock did anything but string John along—it wasn't like Sherlock was forcing John into anything. He'd said himself that the doctor enjoyed danger, and that, John realized later, was what had attracted him to this man to begin with.

Well, maybe "attracted" isn't the right word.

Anyway, what was John thinking, reading letters that obviously weren't his. _But they were addressed to me_, he reasoned as he drifted off to sleep that night. There was only one more letter, anyway. What harm could that do?


	6. When Your Fire Has Died Out

**A/N: Hey, all! This chapter is showing up early, due to the fact that I will be gone for the entirety of tomorrow.  
Enjoy!**

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_John,_

_Emotions are strange things. Of course, I understand the biological reactions that accompany emotions, but I lack the on-hand experience with them that other people have. It hasn't been until recent months that I've been really considering my own emotions and the emotions of others. _

_For instance, there's Mrs. Hudson. Oh, Mrs. Hudson—we've had our differences. We've had our own yelling matches, but that was long before you arrived. She's always been there for me, for both of us. I always thought it was an obligation she felt due to my help with her husband's case. How wrong I was. It's funny how you start to notice things when you really begin to look for them. Her tender pats on the shoulder and always making tea even though she's _not our housekeeper—_oh, don't think I didn't hear her say that—it's always been a comfort I didn't know I needed._

_Then there's Molly. She told me once that she didn't count, and it frightened me to know that she really believed it. She does count. I may treat her horribly—yes, I'm aware of that as well—and I may hurt her time-to-time, but I do that to everyone—even you._

_Especially you._

_And now we have Lestrade. Oh, I'd never admit that he's my friend. Not anywhere besides these letters, at least, and who's going to read these? Lestrade was there for me at a time in my life when no one else was. He saw that I was broken, and he gave me something to do with my mind. He saved me, in a way. I suppose you could say he was my best friend before you showed up._

_I could write for days what I've deduced about your emotions, and I'd still have twice as much to tell. There are the basics—you care a great deal. Not just about yourself or your family or even your friends. It's the people around you, the people you meet once and never see again, that make the way you care so—I don't even know if I have a word for it—astounding, maybe. It's almost an unconditional kind of caring, and I definitely wasn't used to that._

_The first day we met, you weren't put off by me—you were intrigued. You didn't get snippy—you asked more questions. You cared, and that threw me off. _

_And it wasn't just that first day—it was the days after, and then the weeks, and then the years. You still care about me, about _everyone_ today and that alone is a feat. Someone like you, someone who's seen so much death and hatred in their lifetime shouldn't feel the need to care like you do. And yet there it is. There you are. You may not love easily, but when you do it's with all your heart._

_Oh, it's not "cheesy", it's true. _

_The final person I need to talk about is me. My feelings. This is definitely going to be a bit interesting, isn't it? My own emotions have come to haunt me. They used to torment me when I was so hell-bent on not wanting anything to do with them. I would stay away from all of the problems of relationships and friendships because to feel was to be weak. After all, sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. _

_I don't lose._

_Well, not before now. You see, I'm going to have to go very soon. I'm not exactly sure when, but I know it won't be long. Knowing that has brought forth some…revelations. I guess being the one man who was so ignorant of peoples' feelings has its disadvantages. For instance, I couldn't look in a mirror and see the obvious._

_I could pick out an airplane pilot by his tie and a software designer by his left thumb and yet it completely slipped my attention that I love you, John Watson._

_That terrifies me even to write. Love. Oh, it's interesting, isn't it? I used to despise the emotion. The idea of loving someone repulsed me—and I won't even get started on sex. No, really, I would cringe at the thought of giving my entire heart over to someone, being attached. It's sentiment, and vulnerability. Vulnerability means loss._

_I don't lose._

_So now you've gone and made me weak, and vulnerable, and sentimental. Strangely enough, though, I don't feel like I'm losing. If I were to be asked if I could take on the world, I would say yes—even though that's entirely impossible. But that's how you've made me feel. _

_It's terrifying and brilliant at the same time._

_It is time for me to put my pen down. There's business at the lab that should be tended to. I hope one day, if you should ever read this, John, you wouldn't hold it against me in any way. Though, I suppose you wouldn't get the chance to._

_You see, I have to die. The details are fuzzy as to how, and even as to why, but it has to be. There's no other way. It's either me or you._

_I won't let it be you._

_I'm going to go, now. I'm going to meet Molly at the lab and ask her a favour. Then I'm going to wait for the right time, and then I will die. _

_Please understand,_

_Sherlock_

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	7. When It's Dire

**A/N: I'm excited for this chapter. Like I said before, it's a finished work, but I've gone back and fixed a few obvious bugs (like chapter one what was that about, yo?). Anyway, enjoy. Thanks for the reviews and the follows and favourites and such. **

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If one were to ask John exactly what happened in the fifteen minutes after he read the third letter, he wouldn't be able to recall a thing. He wouldn't remember Mary asking him if he wanted some breakfast (and the reply, "Huh? Oh, yeah."). He wouldn't remember his phone buzzing three times with texts from the surgery. He wouldn't remember Mary looking over his shoulder in curiosity and reading the letter herself.

No, John Watson wouldn't remember a thing, for all he could recall were six simple words. Words that, when arranged correctly, could fell buildings and crush hearts. _I won't let it be you_. So what did this mean, exactly? That Sherlock had _saved_ John? No, Sherlock wasn't one to give his life for others. But what if he did?

Mary mentioned nothing of the letter to John for the next few days. She'd noticed a difference as of late, obviously due to Sherlock's words. There had been a change in her fiancé, something big. John was feeling it, too. He would go through the night trying to find sleep, but the guilt would weigh him down and force him to lie awake. It wasn't like he could shut off the thoughts—they were etched into his mind at this point. Of course, he'd told Mary nothing about what the detective had said.

It wasn't until days later that John finally thought about the rest of the message—more than just the fact that Sherlock had given his life so the doctor could live.

_I love you, John Watson_.

Those five words were the first to come to mind, naturally. John thought about them for a while. Sherlock? In love? Nonsense. Sherlock Holmes was not one to love, and yet he'd said himself—in that same pointed script he used everywhere. How could Sherlock Holmes have fallen in love? The same way anyone else did, John supposed, but that couldn't be right. The detective was like no one else in the world.

John mulled over the letters for weeks after, trying to find a hidden meaning, but obtaining none. What could Sherlock have meant these for? Of course, everyone needed an outlet. Maybe his was writing to his best friend.

Weeks later John pushed the letters out of his mind and focused on what really mattered—Mary; his wife-to-be; his love.

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_There are things that I've seen I don't believe._

The air was comfortable—warm for early March. John pulled his jumper over his button-up, breathing in the scent of wind from the open window. There had been a lightness in his chest lately, something he didn't mind at all. A smile spread across his face more often lately—could it be the weather or the approaching wedding? Either way, John was happy, something he was becoming a lot more used to as of late. His mind was a bit muddled, however, as he was still caught up with the letters he had found from his former flatmate. Sherlock's words stayed in the back of his mind, but John didn't have much trouble distracting himself. Thinking of Mary did that—she truly made him happy. She made him better.

John was happy to go to the surgery today; there wasn't a lot scheduled and what little was scheduled was very light—mostly check-ups. So he left the flat almost skipping, deciding to walk a ways before catching a cab. The London air, however warm, still bit, but it was welcome. It was normal. John's gaze kept shifting, taking in the beautiful day. At the end of Baker Street, he turned around to view his flat—his home. Normal.

As soon as he turned back around, however, John bumped into another pedestrian. Blinking away his confusion, he stammered, "Oh, I'm sorry, mate, wasn't looking."

The other man said nothing, but just stood there, and it was then that John decided to look at the man's face. What he found chilled the air around him and sucked the oxygen from his lungs. John was sure the ground beneath him was tilting, but he couldn't be sure. His vision was growing red, the emotions (first astonishment, then disbelief, then anger) flitting across his face as fast as lightening. "Wh—how—when—." But he couldn't speak; his speech had been stolen by the image in front of him.

Ginger locks curled down to pale skin, skirting over his eyebrows. John's gaze kept returning to the eyes, though—green, no, blue, no—_dammit I can never remember_. The eyes were stripping him of coherent thought, so he rambled, trying to form even one word to explain what was happening.

Finally, before John could think clearly again, an impulse struck him straight through the heart. The man never saw John's fist coming.

"Dammit, John!" the man yelled, clutching his cheekbone and staggering backward. "I suppose I deserved that."

The pedestrians around were doing a terrible job of concealing their stares, John absently notices. "Sh—no. You're dead. You've been dead for—."

"Now, John," Sherlock said casually as he stood up straight again and looked down his nose at John, "you didn't really believe that, did you?"

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	8. Where the Heart Went

**A/N: Okay wow eight chapters that's cool no big deal. But it really is because it was originally supposed to be three so YAY MORE FOR YOU. Also, PSA: This is a finished work published on AO3.**

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_Our talk is small_

_I'm seven inches tall_

John's fingertips danced on the end table. "So…what does this mean?" Sherlock thought it was a rhetorical question, but decided to answer anyway.

"We move on. I move back in, I solve crimes and you can blog about it," the detective took a shaky breath, "and maybe I'll forget my pants every now and then." The attempt at a joke fell to the floor among all of Sherlock's hope that things would be normal.

Eyes closed and spine straight, John tried to shut his mind up. "I can't just drop everything for you, Sherlock." The words were biting, but maybe they needed to be. "I'm engaged—."

"To a very fine woman, as well. I like her."

"—and I have a job again. I can't go gallivanting off with you into the streets of London." The pain in John's words didn't escape the detective's knowledge. "Sherlock, I'm not saying I won't accept you back into the flat—this is your home, and I know it always will be." A sigh puffed out of Sherlock. It was entirely impossible to read John sometimes, and this was it. "But it won't be the same. I've grown up since you left. I made a home, I have a life."

"…without me." It wasn't a question, but a simple statement of fact. John had given Sherlock up for the quiet life. He'd given up on Sherlock's return.

The doctor's eyes widened and then the gaze fell downward. "I suppose. But I don't think you were completely out of my life, not really." At Sherlock's confused stare, John continued. "You introduced me to my greatest friends, right? And Mrs. Hudson. I live in a flat that you and I shared. For heaven's sake, I can hardly say 'without you'."

It was unusual to render Sherlock speechless, but John had raised his voice just a tad, which he very rarely did and it shocked the detective. "I—what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that—even with your holier-than-thou persona, and your silences, and your moods, and your 'overbearing demeanor', I still want you in this flat. I still want you in my life."

Sherlock flinched as if he'd been slapped. "You…found the letters." Again, a statement, not a question.

"Yes." John sighed and noticed his clenched fists. He forced himself to relax them. "Yes and I can't—I don't—Sherlock." What would John say to make this better? Maybe nothing, maybe everything. "There was a lot to read, and a lot I didn't understand. But—."

"John, stop. You have no reason to lie." There was a pain in Sherlock's chest that hadn't been there moments before. There was so much going on in his mind, he just needed it to _shut up_.

"It's late. I'm tired and I don't want to talk about this anymore. Not tonight." Sherlock didn't believe he was changing the subject—John had only ever told him the truth.

Good-nights were exchanged and soon Sherlock was alone in the living room, lying on his couch again. Thinking.

He didn't think it would be this bad when he returned. Of course, he knew John would be angry—anyone would in that situation. But this anger, to the degree of not being forgiven…it hurt. Sherlock had been so used to John forgiving him, so convinced that things would go back to normal, that this was entirely unexpected. Sherlock had believed that, to a degree, things would fall back into place, life in the flat would be restored to normal, and they could go back to solving crimes.

Just like before.

Deep in his chest, an unknown pain radiated. How was he to get along with John now? How were they to be friends? The trust itself had been broken, along with Sherlock's last bit of hope that they could be normal.

Did Sherlock want to go back to normal? In a way, he supposed. It would definitely be better than the cold shoulder John was bound to give him. His chest tightened and he wondered if he were having a heart attack. That was absurd, though. The pain didn't seem to go away, though. It felt like he'd been punched…or had fallen off a building.

The air was slowly leaking out of the room. Suffocation felt like a nice punishment. At least he'd suffer for what he'd done to John. God knows he deserved it. Sherlock could feel himself choking on his emotions, his _sentiment._ He scoffed. There was no way he could be feeling sentiment, not after three years. John was just his old friend, just a man he was close to. John was just Sherlock's best friend.

But now John had Mary, and he seemed happy. To be fair, the detective really _did_ like Mary. She was smart—no, not just smart. She was aware. From Sherlock's brief meeting with her in the hallway of the flat, he had gathered enough to have a proper judgment. Mary Morstan was respectable, sharp, attentive…and she seemed to have a hold on John that rivaled that of Sherlock's.

So shouldn't Sherlock be happy for John for having Mary? Jealousy certainly should not be a problem, but from Sherlock's knowledge of emotions, it was definitely going to be an issue.

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	9. It's Almost Easy

**A/N: Oh wow you guys are so supportive. Thank you so much for all you've said and your favourites and such. It keeps me going. **

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_I said I'd never let you go, and I never did_

_I said I'd never let you fall, and I always meant it_

It had been a quiet morning—one that John had assumed would stay that way. He wasn't needed at the surgery and Sherlock hadn't had any cases lined up as of late. Of course, Sherlock himself seemed to be a little irritable due to lack of mental stimulation.

"It's so incredibly dull now," he announced as he paced the kitchen. "It can't be like this all the time, hmm? I assumed that when I returned _maybe_ it would be a bit better!"

John rolled his eyes to the ceiling and continued cooking breakfast, or lunch, or dinner—it was all a bit of a mystery, considering the curtains were blocking any light from outside from entering the flat. The doctor stifled a yawn as he put his toast and jam on a plate and sat down at the table. "Really, Sherlock, it's not so bad. Just sit down, have some tea, be _normal_."

The snort coming from behind him told John of the smirk now plastered on the detective's face. "You of all people should know _normalcy_ is something I pride myself in avoiding." John couldn't help but laugh a bit at that while spreading jam on his toast. "Besides, I don't need tea."

The surprise was evident on John's face as he said, "Sherlock, are you even British?"

"Yes, but don't you see? How am I to drink tea with nothing else to do?" John set down his toast and turned to look at Sherlock.

"Look. You're back now. That means I still have to take care of you. No—don't give me that look. I took care of you before and it looks like I'll be doing it again. Now, sit down and eat. Or at the least, have some bloody tea." The words were meant to be affectionate, but it seems Sherlock took them the wrong way.

"John, I survived three years without your help. I think I can make it a few hours." Suddenly John became very quiet, turning back to his breakfast/lunch/dinner. He said nothing for the next few moments. It took exactly five minutes for Sherlock to realize why. "I—John, don't do that. You know I didn't mean—."

"Don't, Sherlock." John's fingers tightened around the handle of his spoon and shut his eyes. Steady words spilled from his mouth, but the slight tremor in his hand betrayed his anger. "You never mean it. But for once—just once, please—don't mention it."

The detective stayed silent for a minute, counting the seconds until John's hands relaxed a bit. "I've told you before…it couldn't be helped, you know. You've told me you understood." But something in the way the doctor held himself—the silence, the rigid posture—suggested that maybe he didn't completely understand. That thought petrified Sherlock, for John was the most understanding human being he knew.

What had made John so hard—so unreceptive to emotion? Surely Sherlock could have pinpointed it by now. _Unless it had to do with me_, he mused_. That happens sometimes_.

"I'm sorry," he tried, he really did. "Whatever I did, John, I'm—."

"Don't you dare tell me you're sorry, Sherlock Holmes." That was when he stood and began cleaning—anything he could get his hands on. John picked up the plates and the jam and the utensils and placed them calmly in the sink, murmuring the whole way. "You are not sorry, because 'sorry' generally means you regret what you did, and I _know_ you don't regret it."

The taller man blinked at the ground, surprised at the emotions flooding through him. Anger was definitely present, along with hurt and genuine shock. "Please do not tell me what I regret and what I do not, John Watson." The pacing stopped and his hands balled into fists at his side. "If there is one thing I regret it's leaving you here. Alone. But I had to do that. I had t—."

"_You were gone_!" John's voice broke on the second word, careening up to a higher octave and sounding almost like a squeal; the table shook from the impact of his fist.

Sherlock was angry. No, Sherlock was livid. "I was protecting you!" he spat. Nothing had hurt him so much as hearing the pain in his friend's voice. He quieted immediately. "That's what friends do, huh? You told me once, didn't you? ...friends protect people, right?"

John pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying and failing to regain his composure. "Dammit, Sherlock, no! You weren't protecting me, you were killing me. No! Hush up for a minute." he held his hand up to keep his flatmate quiet. "You say I should've been okay, hmm? That I should have been able to get over the death of a friend so damn easily? Well _too bad_._" _John's fist hit the table again, sending a test tube crashing to the floor. "People don't just _get over it_, Sherlock. I can't just watch you—. Forget it."

"Watch me what, John? Die? _I apologize._ I've said it a thousand times." _And yet it's getting me nowhere._ "I had to, don't you see? Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade…you. I couldn't let him get to you!" The tendons in Sherlock's neck were stretched tight, a clear sign of his tense anger. "You, John, you were not to be harmed at all."

John snorted. "Well fat load of good that did, then, huh? Because if you haven't noticed, Sherlock, _you hurt me_."

"Oh, I'm aware, trust me. You haven't let me forget it since I stepped foot back into your life." Sherlock's lip curled in disgust. It was a horrid thing to think that John could have ever loved him. "So go ahead and tell me how I've scarred you—I've most likely heard it all before."

A sense of calm seemed to settle over John before he strode over straight in front of his flatmate. "You want me to tell you the truth, then?" Though John was smaller, he seemed to loom over Sherlock now. "You didn't just scar me when you left. I—I loved you, Sherlock. _Loved._"

_Past-tense; said twice, with emphasis; he obviously meant it._ It was hard for the detective to move after the words were uttered. "No, I wasn't scarred, I was maimed. I was crippled for weeks. Excuse me, but if you haven't noticed, _my best friend died and he wasn't there to make it better_."

"_I'm sorry!_" Sherlock slammed both fists onto the table, sending petri dishes and a teacup crashing to the floor. His face contorted in anger, betraying everything he once thought he could hide. He stared down at the table. "I'm sorry I left you, John," he practically growled. "I apologize that I was not here to console you after I faked my own death. I regret ever doing this, but let me tell you this, John. You were…I was saving you…and you got through it, did you not?"

"Sher—."

"No, John, it's my turn. You had Mary and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Molly, did…you…not?" There was a menacing gleam in Sherlock's eye that John failed to ignore.

The detective was silent, so apparently that was not a rhetorical question. "Yes, Sherlock, but—."

Hand held in the air to cut off his roommate, the detective continued. "You had them, and you got through it. So now I ask—who did I have? A distant brother and an assistant he paid to keep quiet about my fraudulent death."

John watched as droplets of water splashed onto the table-top. "I'm…I didn't…I'm sorry."

"You're sorry, hmm?" Curls bounced as the younger man lifted his head to meet John's eyes. Watery and red, they seemed to want to say something that the doctor could not say out loud. "Because from what I've learned about being sorry—and I learned it all from you, mind—"sorry" means you regret what you did. And, yet, you have nothing to regret."

The doctor was definitely confused at this point. "I don't know what you mean. I—I'm sorry, Sherlock. I regret not being there for you, not—oh." Realization dawned on his face and he began to pace back and forth. "But that doesn't change the fact that you hurt me, you know."

"You don't think I wasn't hurt? _I left you,_ John. I left you and I couldn't stop it. If I had, I would have had to watch you die. Mrs. Hudson would have been gone and so would Lestrade. Everyone I care about…" Sherlock straightened, rolled his neck, and stared ahead. John was reminded of the military.

His mouth quirked up into a small grin. "And here I was thinking Sherlock Holmes cared about nothing."

There was no telling what caused Sherlock to do it; he just did. John wasn't even aware of what was happening until Sherlock's lips had captured his own. He hadn't had time to process Sherlock striding forward and taking the older man's chin between his long fingers, tilting his head upward. The kiss was short, angry. Sherlock rumbled when he'd pulled back, still gripping John's chin hard, "I care about more than you know, John Watson."

John stepped back, shaking his head. "No, Sherlock. No. I have...I have Mary." But, Sherlock noted, he sounded disappointed—in himself, maybe?

"Ehem. Well, I suppose I should respect that." Sherlock returned to the table and began to pick up his scattered lab equipment. "I think I'll have that tea now."

John raised an eyebrow and questioned no further.

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	10. Just Bent

**A/N: Yay, it's up a bit early. I hope you like this chapter-it's focused more on John and Mary's relationship. Also, I'm simplemelodies on tumblr. **

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_And the tears come streaming down your face_

_When you lose something you can't replace_

_When you love someone but it goes to waste_

_Could it be worse?_

When Mary thought about it, it wasn't that shocking really, given how their relationship had been. She wasn't mad either. She loved John, but she couldn't give him what he needed. The rush he got from the cases, from Sherlock, she couldn't give him that. She loved him but she knew she had to let him go. So this is it, she told herself. Her breath caught in her throat and she had to force herself to inhale. John was in the kitchen making tea. It was so normal that it broke her heart.

What was so different about this, though? He was just the same; the same John Watson Mary had met just over a year ago is the same John Watson bringing her tea at this moment. However, there's just a bit of a change—a shift in perspective, if you will.

"Are you feeling okay, Sweetheart?" The nickname John had always used for his fiancée made Mary smile, though it was sad.

"I will be." Shaking off the sadness, a real smile spread itself across her delicate features and she sat up straighter. "But how was your day, dear? Anything new at the surgery?"

They fell into an easy conversation, though both were completely aware of the elephant in the room. Someone had to say something, but Mary wasn't going to be the one to say it. "Mary…" John's words trailed away after a decidedly long lull in conversation.

"You know what we've got to do, don't you?" Mary couldn't bring herself to lift her eyes from the empty mug in her hands. Her fingers were bone white against the dark brown ceramic, only slightly shaking. "I…I thought I could do it."

John's tanned hand pulled the mug from her hand and set it down on the table, only to cover her hands in his. "I don't want you to do this, you know. I know we have to, and I know it should have been months ago—but I still don't want to lose you, Mary."

Something inside her cracked. She could feel the hot press of tears behind her eyes and her hands shook a bit more under John's. She was going to be strong… "I don't think you'll lose me." It was a reassurance—maybe for John, maybe for both of them, even. "But you'll lose him, John. Even now you're pulling away from him—."

"What am I supposed to do, then? I want you. I want to have tea with you, and watch crap telly, and—."

"John." He didn't expect to be cut off, but neither did she. Her cheeks were wet. The taste of salt was on her lips. "We can still do that. Nothing will change—we'll still be friends, you know." And it was true—Mary wanted to be friends, to remain in John's life even if it wasn't romantically. "I don't want you to be unhappy, John."

Mary watched as John ran the words through his mind. "Mary, of course I'm happy. I'm happy with you." It hurt Mary to see him like that; his eyes were so full of hope and they pleaded her to stay, to not go on with what she was supposed to do.

"But are you happy without _him_?" And with that, she knew—it wouldn't be Mary-and-John. It would always be Sherlock-and-John, for the two—no matter how she looked at it, or how hard she tried to deny it—were joined together, fully. Without Mary. "Let's say we make a date—for drinks, nothing more." John sat back, defeated, and Mary's heart tore in two. "You and Sherlock," at the detective's name, the doctor flinched, "can both be there. We'll talk about…well, about how life is I guess. That's what friends do, right?"

But tears were streaming down her face and she couldn't speak anymore. She had lost John, she knew. _But_, she told herself, _maybe not forever._

It wasn't until late that night when she crawled into her own bed in her own flat with her own kitten curled against her that she really began to cry. _For the best, it's for the best._

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	11. A Bad Love Like This

**A/N: Oh my goodness. I guess I didn't realize, but-here's the final chapter. Thank you all so much for favouriting and following this. It took a while to finally finish (but I finished it back in March, so? I'm sorry!) And I'm so, so, so sorry for the delay in updating. Life has been so distracting lately. **

**Again, thank you for the support.**

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_And I know it seems beneath me_

_But sometimes it's not so easy_

_To wish you well and let you go_

His entire being was on display. His feelings lay scattered on the floor of his heart, cut open and bleeding. The weight of scrutinizing eyes pressed against his lungs, stopping his breath, starting it again with a short gasp.

"It's funny," those eyes held steady with his own, "how you can deny something for so long, and never, not once, realize that you're lying." _Blink_.

The eyes stole his ability to form words and coherent thought. He couldn't speak.

He was being tortured without being touched. "Why do you always do this?" The words sputtered out of John's mouth. "Why do you always say such hurtful things?"

John was sitting upright on in his chair while Sherlock lay on his back on the couch, watching him. Studying him. He wanted to scream. He wanted to yell at Sherlock that everything he did made him angrier and angrier.

"You're upset."

"Of course I'm bloody upset!" The doctor's volume was rising, and fast. "I wasn't lying, not then. And I'm not lying now, Sherlock."

The detective steepled his fingers under his chin and stared hard at the ceiling. "Of course. What would there be to lie about?"

There had been so many fights. John was not sure he could manage it, really. He didn't know if moving out was an option, however—it's not like he could afford a flat in London on his own. But he had to get away from Sherlock—he felt as if he were being suffocated. John felt as if everything he did was going to be criticized, or that every time Sherlock left, he would never return.

He was done, completely done. "I'm leaving. I'll see if Mary has a place on her couch, but I can't stay here anymore. Not—." He didn't want to finish. "Not with you." He pushed himself up from the chair and made for the stairs.

"No."

The simple word stopped the man in his tracks. "Are you really telling me what I cannot do?" Pain radiated from his hands where his fingernails dug into his palms. Eyes closed, John took a deep breath and started walking forward again. "I suggest you find arrangement for another flatmate. I can't—."

Sherlock's hand was on his arm, stopping both is movements and his words. "Don't. Please, John." The detective's voice was small.

It tore at John's heart, but what else was he supposed to do? He couldn't stay here, not with Sherlock being this way. He couldn't trust the man. "I have to."

"No. No, you don't."

"Hell, Sherlock, you can't tell me what to do!" Now John was yelling, and in the back of his mind he thought maybe he should stop, but he couldn't; he'd had enough. "I am a grown man and I can do what I damn well please." The doctor jerked his arm away and swung around to face his flatmate. "Now—let me go. You have no possession over me." Though he said it to Sherlock, he knew he had to reassure himself. "Just—just let me go, please."

"I can't do that, John."

There was a fire in both of their eyes now. The room was buzzing around them, heated with John's rage and Sherlock's desperate need for him to stay. You could—what's the phrase? Oh, yes—cut the tension with a butter knife.

"Yes! Yes, you can! You just don't want to." Hands wrapped around the lapel of Sherlock's shirt, bringing the flatmates' faces together. There was actually a bit of fear in Sherlock's eye—was John going to hit him? "Three years, you big git. Three bloody years that I thought you were dead and you can't even let me move out?" Spit was flying out of the doctor's mouth. "Selfish!" he cried. "That's what you are. I knew it all along, mind you, and yet I still let you get to me."

The detective stood, shocked, too shocked even to pull out of the man's grasp. "John, I—."

"This time, I'm saying no. No, you're not going to make this right. No, I'm not going to change my mind. No, I don't care that I read a letter that was years old. No, I can't love you anymore. I can't!" The last of John's words ended on a shout, one last attempt to convince himself. "You are selfish! You never do anything that doesn't interest you in the slightest—hell, you don't even get the milk! I can't get you off your damn ass to eat and somehow that's my fault. Get over yourself, because I'm sure as hell not going to."

He stepped back, releasing the collar of his flatmate and turning away. "I'll be getting my things tomorrow; I'll send you a text when I come 'round. Don't wait up."

"Please." It was broken; John could barely hear it due to its lack of volume. After a swift debate in his head, he turned back to the younger man. "Please, John."

A smile touched the edge of John's lips. "You know, I remember one time, you said you'd never begged for mercy in your life. I'm beginning to wonder why it's always me you're pleading to."

"Don't flatter yourself." It was meant to be smug, John knew, but Sherlock was defeated. He was battered and he looked as tired as John felt. But as he watched, Sherlock stood taller, his eyes hardened, and his hands clasped themselves behind his back. "If you wish to leave, that is your decision. Like you said, I can't stop you." He walked closer to John, who was standing in the doorway leading to the stairs. "However, I'd like to leave you with something."

John was looking at the ground. He was looking at the ceiling. He was reading the writing on the newspaper strewn on the living room floor. He was looking anywhere but at Sherlock. This came to be a fault, as he failed to notice the close proximity between their bodies. Sherlock was inches away, and John could feel the heat radiating through the fabric of the detective's shirt. "Sherlock—."

It was the soft brushing of lips that did it. It was the closeness and the feel of their bodies pressed together. It was the smile that the detective wore when the doctor opened his eyes seconds later. It was the electricity in the room, like someone had taken a transformer and hooked it up to the air. It was the tension buzzing around, remnants of the fight. It was exactly what John Watson needed to look his best friend in the eye.

"I love you."

"I know." Sherlock's eyes were darting over John's face, taking every bit in. "As do I."

"I'm just so angry with you. All the time." But the fight had gone out of him, and he leaned his weight into Sherlock. He was tired. He didn't want to fight, not anymore. He didn't want to be angry.

John had lost the battle—his heart was torn to shreds and his mind was too worn to care. Of course, he had to be used to this if he were to spend his life with Sherlock Holmes.

_"I love you."_

_"As do I."_

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